


Pessimal: The Grain of Truth

by ojisandavid



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: (now it is), Ankh-Morpork, Ankh-Morpork City Watch, Dorks in Love, Dwarf freestyle verse (it’s a thing), M/M, Queer Culture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:02:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 12,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24902029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ojisandavid/pseuds/ojisandavid
Summary: For the first time in his life, Watch Inspector A.E. Pessimal is dating someone. But all is not well: His date keeps pumping him for money, then turns up dead. Working with Angua and a troubled new lance constable, A.E. chases a shadowy villainess through Ankh-Morpork's burgeoning gay nightlife scene. Will they catch her before she kills again? Will A.E. find love? Can werewolves beatbox? Find out!
Relationships: A.E. Pessimal/Original Character
Comments: 25
Kudos: 13





	1. Date Night

**Author's Note:**

> Something like catfishing has arrived on the Disc and A.E. Pessimal, lonely and hoping for love, falls victim. But our favorite unlikely little hero once attacked a troll with his teeth. He just isn't very good at remaining a victim.

The dwarfs believe that Truth was once a tangible thing, a precious metal like gold. They believe that grains of truth survive in the world, here and there, hidden until the right moment. 

Perhaps Love was once a precious metal too, because the dwarfs believe that love, like truth, will reveal itself when the time is right.

\---

Ankh-Morpork's famed Curry Gardens drew customers from all walks of life through its doors, where they enjoyed chicken vindaloo, lamb korma, and of course the eponymous eye-watering curry. 

One of the customers this particular evening didn't come from any walk of life. He didn't _have_ a life. But he did like the food.

Unnoticed by anyone except his somewhat glazed waiter, Death enjoyed a leisurely bowl of curry. Between spoonfuls, he eavesdropped shamelessly on the couple at the next table. 

They were out on a date. It wasn't their first, judging by the conversation, but also not a relationship of long standing. They were due to attend a musical at the Dysk theatre later, he learned.

One of them, a thin, neatly dressed little man of early middle age with exceptionally shiny little boots, was clearly besotted with the young man across the table. Death was no expert, but the lad's ash-blond curls, ice-blue eyes, and general V-shaped good looks marked him as a catch. The little man, his dark hair plastered to his scalp with hair wax, his spectacles hanging from his neck by a ribbon, was not.

The young man's eyes followed their attractive young Klatchian waiter, which didn't escape the little man's notice. 

"Honestly, Johnny, I don't know what you see in me. Would you not rather spend your time with someone else?" His eyes cut to the waiter. "You know, handsome? Around your own age?"

"Now, now," Johnny said in an oddly flat voice, as if he were reading off a card, "I told you I'm tired of the silly lads my own age. Besides, we're soulmates. I felt it when we very first met. You know that."

The older man nodded and gave a thin smile, but even Death, an inexpert witness, could see that the question continued to gnaw. Truth, like love, can be hard to find.

The couple's order arrived, and Death noticed Johnny and the waiter exchange glances. When he left, the older man asked, "Do you know him? The waiter?"

"No! No, er, just…" Johnny trailed off, and made a show of concentrating on his meal.

"I'm concerned," the little man said after a time, "about your mother. Is her leg any better?"

"Oh yes, er, I had a clacks from her just yesterday. She was able to visit the doctor thanks to the money order you sent. He said she's better. Oh, but not out of the woods, er, yet."

"Please let me know if I can assist her again. After all, you've been so kind to me. It's the least I can do."

"Thank you," said the lad, his face glum.

"And I don't wish to embarrass you, Johnny, but … your back rent?"

"Well, you see, I, er, sent money to Mum too ... and the landlord said … and then ...."

Over his half-hearted protests, the older man slipped him an open envelope. Death could see a few examples of the new paper currency peeking out. On the topmost bill he glimpsed the upper third of the Patrician's famous face, one eyebrow raised. 

Something seemed to give, somewhere inside the lad. He held out the envelope.

"Please," he said miserably. "I can't take this from you."

The little man made no move to take it back.

"Johnny," he said gently. "You must."

The boy held it out a moment longer, then sagged.

"Yes," he sighed. "I must."

The older man chatted with forced cheeriness about the musical they were about to see, "and at the Dysk, too. I do so love their musicals. And it's sort of our place, isn't it, meeting there by chance as we did. Like it was meant to be."

"Chance. Yes," said Johnny absently, eyes following their waiter again.

The older man paid for the couple's expensive dinner and, at Johnny's insistence, left their waiter a handsome tip. As they rose to leave for the theatre, Death saw Johnny quickly fold a scrap of paper and drop it atop the tip money. 

The waiter arrived, pocketed the money, unfolded the piece of paper, and read it with a look of dismay. Death, curious, half-stood to peep over the waiter's shoulder. The waiter didn't notice, since it wasn't his time to meet Death and no one _wants_ to notice a seven-foot robed skeleton. 

The paper read: “Six o’clock Thursday evening -- Mrs. Buchanan.” 

\---

At the Dysk, Death sat a few rows behind the couple. He couldn't make heads or tails of the show. According to the playbill, it was "ye eagerlie awaited musickal adaptation of _'Tis Pity She's an Instructor in Unarmed Combat_." There were secret identities, betrayals, a murder most foul, a mysterious villainess, random outbursts of song and dance, watchmen running to and fro, a climactic fight scene, a rather abrupt and unlikely romance, and a syrupy happy ending (for some reason involving a bluebird) that left him baffled. 

It did have a couple of catchy tunes you could hum on the way home, and he always enjoyed the groundlings, who threw peanut shells and beer bottles at the actors during the dull bits. 

He caught up with the couple as they stood awkwardly outside the Dysk, jostled by other departing playgoers. 

"Let's meet again on Octeday," Johnny was saying.

"I'm very sorry," the little man sighed, "but I'll be working."

"Oh," Johnny replied "I guess it's an eight-day-a-week job in the Watch."

Death observed as puzzlement appeared on the little man's face, followed by panic, with a quick burlesque number by naked hurt. All were quickly ushered off the stage. 

"Why would you think I work for the Watch?" he asked quietly.

"Oh, er, it's just that you mentioned it. I'm certain you did."

"I am certain I did not," came the flat reply.

"Oh? Oh. Well, silly me, forget my own head next, so good to see you again, thank you again for dinner, be seeing you." Johnny hurried -- no, fled -- down Brewer Street.

The little man stood motionless alongside Death. He didn't _see_ Death of course, because he wasn't the one with a pending appointment. His narrow shoulders slumped. 

"Stupid, stupid, stupid," he murmured to himself. "If he knows, then … but what if I offended him … should I …"

Unshed tears glimmered, the cautious tears of someone who has learned, at some cost, not to let his emotions show.

Death would have felt great sympathy for the little man, but he didn't have the glands for it. He thought sympathy instead. 

IF IT IS ANY COMFORT, MR. PESSIMAL, said Death to the unheeding man, YOU WILL NOT SEE THE LAD AGAIN. HE WAS NO GOOD FOR YOU ANYWAY. He stalked away, down Brewer Street.


	2. Collecting Wages

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Spare me. The little fruit still has some money. He's a watchman, and I can't imagine he wants that tightass Sam Vimes to know he's a molly. You're losing your edge, Johnny."
> 
> **  
> Johnny gets his wages and then some, Death tries and fails to understand dating, A.E. Pessimal gets an unwelcome note, and Angua follows the money from a dead body to some unpleasant conclusions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mild trigger warning: The villainess (a delicious Victorian word you don't hear often enough) uses derogatory terms for gay men.

Johnny stepped into a smoky, thumping pub filled with young people,mostly men, of various species, drinking, dancing, flirting, making out. He waved and smiled at the barman and then made his way to a back corner.

There he sat down at a table across from a gaudily dressed older woman, who gave him a sour look. The very large and muscular man sitting next to her gave him the look of someone who would happily kill him for ninepence.

"You're late," she said.

"Sorry, Mrs. Buchanan, the play went a bit long." He held out the envelope. "Here you are," he said with a brightness he didn't feel. 

She snatched it from him and quickly counted out the money. She handed back a couple of the smaller bills to a deflated Johnny.

"He usually gives you at least fifty," she said meaningfully. He opened his mouth to protest his innocence when the muscle cleared its throat. He pulled a few wadded bills from his pocket and handed them over with bad grace.

"So when's your next date with the poof?" she demanded.

He mumbled a reply.

"What?"

"We didn't set one. Not yet." He explained his faux pas.

"Idiot!" Mrs. Buchanan exclaimed. "Why would you let that slip out? What are the chances Pessimal will see you again now that he doesn't trust you? We have to go straight to the threats."

"What's the problem?" Johnny whined. "You were going to blackmail him anyway!"

"We'd have had months of smooth sailing before that. Easy money the whole time from the stupid little fruit. Now we have to escalate to threats, and that escalates the risk too." She took a long swig of her whiskey. "Idiot," she said once again, with feeling.

Johnny sagged. "Look, he's not a bad guy. He's certainly not rich. Why not just leave him be?" He spoke with a slight Llamadese* accent that told of one or two years in the city, not long enough to have the last drops of compassion squeezed out of him. 

* The language of Llamedos, a small and soggy country known for rain, sheep, druids, and rain.

"'He's not a bad guy,'" said Mrs. Buchanan in a mocking tone. "Spare me. The little fruit still has some money. He's a watchman, and I can't imagine he wants that tightass Sam Vimes to know he's a molly. You're losing your edge, Johnny."

"I should tell him," said the lad sullenly.

"Bad idea, boy. Very bad. Now get out of here."

After he left, the muscle made an interrogative noise. The woman hesitated, then gave a curt nod. The muscle stepped out. 

Mrs. Buchanan made her way to a house some blocks away near the Shades, taking care not to be followed.

Once inside, she collected a pair of scissors, a pot of glue, and a copy of yesterday's _Times_. After another muttered imprecation at cute stupid boys, she began to compose a note on a sheet of paper, one cut-out letter at a time.

\---

Soon after, in the alley outside his lodgings in Lobbin Clout, Johnny lost the paltry sum Mrs. Buchanan had returned to him -- but not the five-dollar note he'd hidden in his left boot, which comforted him not at all, as it turned out. He also lost a distressing amount of blood. 

The muscle dropped him and walked away. Johnny stared down at his own crumpled body. If that was him down there, he wondered, then who was up here doing the staring?

A tall robed figure stepped out of the shadows. Its face and hands were skeletal. It carried a scythe.

Oh, thought Johnny. That explains it.

CAERWYN AP DYNCREULON?

“You know my name?” asked Johnny, née Caerwyn, and then felt a little silly. 

YES. Death coughed. BEFORE YOU GO, I SHOULD LIKE TO ASK A QUESTION.

“Oh,” said Caerwyn. “Sure….?”

AT THE CURRY GARDENS, YOU PRETENDED TO FEEL EMOTIONS THAT YOU DID NOT FEEL, AND MR. PESSIMAL PRETENDED TO BELIEVE YOU. WHY?

The young man tried to explain. Death tried to understand.

"Will he be okay?" Caerwyn asked.

I FEAR YOU HAVE LEFT HIM IN A DIFFICULT SITUATION. STILL, he mused, IT IS POSSIBLE THAT HE WILL COPE.

"That's good, I guess." He looked around. "So … what do I do next? Where do I go?" 

WHERE DO YOU WISH TO GO?

"Not home," said the lad's ghost with a shiver.

YOU WILL BE RELIEVED TO KNOW THAT HOME IS NOT AN OPTION.

The ghost exhaled, out of habit. "Then anywhere is fine."

Death placed a kindly hand on his shoulder and steered him forward. The blood-stained cobbles had faded away, replaced by an endless sea of black sand.

ANYWHERE IT IS, THEN.

\---

The next morning, Watch Inspector A.E. Pessimal* found a folded note shoved under the door of his rooms in Welcome Soap.

* His parents didn’t name him, they just gave him the two initials. It was the first of many disappointments in his life.

He unfolded it.

_wE know wheRe you live we know Where yOu worke, Copper. U and JohnNy shud Be m0re careful. More latEr keep you're wallet Handy_

He leaned against the wall, fought to control his breathing, fought the urge to throw up. _Ohgods ohgods ohgods_.

Maybe they were bluffing, maybe they didn't know where he worked. 

_They know where you live._ He grimaced. It was the voice, the one in his head that he tried so hard to ignore. It sounded a little like his dad and a lot like himself at, say, thirteen, lonely and hating himself and terrified. 

He tried to reason with himself, with it.

They must have gotten to Johnny, he thought. Threatened him and got the information out of him.

_How did Johnny know where you work? You never told him._

I must have, I must have. 

_He could have written the note._

No! We're soulmates! He said so!

_And you believed him? Really? Someone like him wouldn't look twice at something like you, not unless he was up to something._

But he said ... 

_You don't have a soulmate. You're broken. The gods hate people like you._

Pessimal slid down the wall. 

_He betrayed you._

\---

Meanwhile, Angua tried to shut out the pervasive scent of blood and get on with her work. A horrified neighbor had found a body here in this fetid alley in Lobbin Clout. It bore several stab wounds and no note from the Assassin’s Guild, which tended to focus its attentions on the wealthier districts. 

As she sniffed up and down the alley, young troll Constable Brick returned with the neighbor, a youngish woman in possession of a soggy handkerchief and a worrying expression.

"She say he never no trouble and she didn't hear nuffink, Captain," he reported, his saluting hand going _clonk_ against his helmet. "He might be from dat wet foreign place, Yamma … Lamoo…"

"Llamedos," the neighbor woman supplied. "At least that's what it sounded like to me, not that I ever paid particular attention to his utterly _adorable_ accent or asked him questions just to hear him talk, I don't care what that whey-faced boot Mrs. Hockneedle says, I mean, that would be _creepy,"_ she said with a certain bug-eyed intensity that caused Angua to take a small involuntary step back.

"Yes, it would -- I mean, thank you, ma'am," she said, cursing herself for letting that one slip through. "Do you know his name?"

"Well, he went by Johnny," the woman said, advancing on Angua slightly, "but that doesn't sound very … Llamedosian? Llamadese? Llamadatian? I never know how to say that. He didn't look very druidic either, really. Have you found any clues? Do you think he was living under an assumed name? Maybe he's secretly a bandit, or Llamadish royalty, no, that's not right, I think it really is Llamadese, or maybe..." 

"Inquiries are continuing thank you for your assistance ma'am now if you'll excuse us we just have to go over here and do Watch things..." The trail of words followed Angua's hasty retreat to the roped-off area around Johnny's door. Brick followed.

They found the five-dollar note in the boy's left boot. Angua sniffed it.

Follow the money. That was one of the sayings that Mister Vimes had in mind when he would say, "Remember what I always say."

Well, Angua could follow this money. It smelled of -- she wrinkled her nose -- a bachelor's sock, of course. But she also caught a strong hint* of An Evening in Quirm, a perfume worn almost exclusively by the ladies of negotiable affection.

* An Evening in Quirm didn't so much drop a hint as drop an anvil. Its much-admired advertising slogan: “For the woman in a hurry.”

She gave it another sniff, and picked up notes of hair wax, shoe polish, and anxiety. In other words, she realized, it smelled of Inspector Pessimal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The neighbor’s uncertainty over the correct name for residents of Llamedos reflects my own search for the proper demonym, but then I found “Llamadese” in more than one book and went with it.
> 
> Llamedos, of course, is Sir Terry's version of Wales. "Ap Dyncreulon" is Welsh (or at least Google Translate Welsh) for "son of a cruel man." Later on you'll learn more about that, and what Caerwyn means.
> 
> I picture Mrs. Buchanan as a tough broad of the early-twentieth-century American variety. Sir Terry never wrote a straight-up Discworld analogue for America, so we'll just have to leave her origins murky.


	3. Underdogs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She saw past Vimes’ stone face. She saw a man who instinctively sided with the underdog.... And you'd have a hard time finding more of an underdog than the small man now crumpled on the cold stone floor.
> 
> **
> 
> Inspector Pessimal assists Angua with a mysterious murder and gets a horrible surprise. Also, there’s a new lance constable in town with a familiar name.

"‘I comma square bracket recruit’s name square bracket comma’…”

The brand-new lance constable repeated his oath, administered to him by troll Sergeant Detritus. The lad was new to the city, fresh off the coach from Genua. He wondered about all the brackets, but soldiered on.

"'...so help me bracket aforesaid deity bracket full stop Gods Save the King stroke Queen bracket delete whichever is inappropriate bracket full stop.’”

"Welcome to der Watch, Macaroon."

"It's, er, Macarona, Sergeant," the lad said. "Jango Macarona."

"Dat what I said." The sergeant paused as a thought assembled itself. "You related to dat guy Bengo Mac … what you said? Big foot-da-ball guy?" *

"No relation, Sergeant," Jango said quickly. "Er, Sergeant?"

"Yes?"

"What exactly does the oath mean?"

"Easy," Detritus replied. "It mean 'I will do what I told; otherwise I get my _goohuloog_ head kicked in.'"

"Oh. Is that all?"

* Dat guy would be Professor Bengo Macarona, famed in foot-the-ball news coverage, the footnotes of other wizards’ scholarly papers, and at least one divorce petition filed by the angry wife of a man who just happened to slip and fall into a rather compromising position just as he was getting Professor Macarona's autograph -- in the couple's bedroom -- and no, he wasn't sure what happened to their clothes, and please put down the axe, dear.

\---

Angua found Pessimal at his desk, drinking his morning cocoa. His usual scent of anxiety was heavy this morning, she noted.

"Inspector, I think you may be able to assist us with a murder case," she said without prelude, voice clipped as it always was after her inner werewolf had smelled blood. She tried to ignore the baying in her head.

The little man's eyes widened. "Oh. Of course, Captain."

"Meet me downstairs at the morgue in ... let's say five minutes."

She hurried upstairs and knocked on the door of His Grace, the Duke of Ankh, Commander Sir Samuel Vimes.*

* His full title, much to his chagrin, minus the bit about the blackboard monitor.

"Unattributed murder, sir. Possible officer involvement. I thought you'd want to be there when we view the body."

"Which officer?"

"Pessimal."

 _"Pessimal?_ He didn't…"

"No, his scent doesn't place him at the crime scene, but he's been in contact with the victim in the last twelve hours or so." 

Vimes might've asked if she was certain, but this was Angua. She could smell what you'd had for breakfast last Tuesday. He rose from his desk.

The two met Pessimal in the cellars, just outside the Watch morgue. As they walked in, she realized the little man was shaking, more than could be explained even by the ice-cooled room.

"Are you sure you want to do this, Inspector?"

"Yes, Captain Angua. If I can assist in solving a crime of this nature, then it is my duty to do so."

She remembered a little man so brave he'd attacked an enormous drugged-out troll in order to save the commander. It was the night that A.E. Pessimal, not even a proper watchman yet, had earned the right to address the commander as Mister Vimes.

She nodded to Igor*, who pulled back the sheet.

* Of course.

The little man's eyes widened. His hands flew to his mouth. She knew she would hear his muffled, heart-rending cries for years to come, in the pit of a bad night.

"Can you identify him?" she asked gently, and hated herself for asking when the answer was as clear as the horror on A.E. Pessimal's face.

"Johnny," he managed. His knees buckled and he dropped slowly to the floor.

Igor scurried over with a handkerchief. Angua knelt and placed a tentative hand on the inspector’s shoulder. She gave Vimes a helpless look. His expression in turn was blank, or would have been to a less experienced Vimes-watcher than Angua.

She saw past Vimes’ stone face. She saw a man who instinctively sided with the underdog, even when he didn't yet know what all the barking was about. And you'd have a hard time finding more of an underdog than the small man now crumpled on the cold stone floor, trying without success to stop sobbing. 

The commander’s face promised one thing for whomever had done this: a short drop and a sudden stop. 

She could almost feel sorry for the murderer. Almost.

\---

In the Pseudopolis Yard locker room, Lance Constable Macarona dressed for duty.

"Macarona, huh?" said a constable -- Fittly, the lad thought, but he'd had too many names thrown at him today. "You sure you're not related to Bengo Macarona?"

He heard chuckles and snorts from various corners of the room. 

"No relation that I know of, Constable," he lied politely, then bent his head over the armor he was busily polishing.

"You're from Genua like him. You're good-looking like him. Are you funny like him?"

"Funny haha?" another voice chimed in.

"No, funny as in a big nancy," said probably-Fittly.

Shit, thought the lance constable. It's just like back home. I thought Ankh-Morpork would be different.

"Oh, is something funny, Constable Fittly?" came the voice of Captain Carrot Ironfoundersson. Macarona had been introduced to him and Captain Angua von Uberwald earlier. He'd learned that Carrot was second in command after Sam Vimes, that he was distractingly handsome, and that he was very much spoken for by Angua, who'd made direct and meaningful eye contact with the lance constable the very instant he'd been struck by Carrot's good looks. He could have sworn she growled.

"No, Captain," said Fittly, suddenly deferential. Macarona kept his head down.

"I didn't think so either," Carrot replied. "Aren't you due on patrol?" 

"Yes, Captain. We was just trying to get to know...."

"I'm sure you were. Off you go, then." 

The lance constable exhaled. He looked up into Carrot's big _and handsome but forget you even thought that_ and friendly face.

"The lads always try it on with new recruits, Lance Constable, especially" -- he rolled his eyes -- "Fittly. Sorry about that. Don't worry, you'll earn their respect soon enough."

"Yes sir. I plan to, sir."

Carrot raised an eyebrow. "Very confident of you, Lance Constable."

I have to be, thought Jango. If I'm the bravest, toughest copper in the Watch, they won't guess the truth about me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sir Terry’s Genua is very New Orleanian, of course, so I toyed with the idea of giving Jango a heavy [yat](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/New_Orleans_English) accent. But den he’d be tawkin’ like dis, i.e. too much like Sir Terry’s rendering of troll speech. Instead I went with the implied Florentine bits of Genua (such as the Genuan roots of the Medici-esque Lavish banking family) and pictured him with a light Italian accent to go with his overall cute-as-fuckness.


	4. Piecing it Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "And of course I shall submit my resignation, Your Grace,” said Pessimal in a small, drained voice.
> 
> **
> 
> Pessimal’s pigeons come home to roost.

Vimes and Angua pieced the story together over the next few hours with Pessimal, in the privacy of the commander's office. The inspector slowly collected himself, assisted by mugs of sludgy cocoa.

They learned how Johnny had somehow slipped on the cobbles outside the Dysk on the opening night of a big musical production, just in front of Pessimal, and how he let a little man maybe two-thirds his size help him up. 

They learned about the regular dates, which never went beyond a quick kiss.

With some gentle probing about the Pessimal-scented five-dollar note, they learned about the gifts: a few dollars here, a few more dollars there, always more. They learned that Pessimal had not been unduly alarmed by Johnny's requests for money; he had no real idea what was considered acceptable since no one had ever dated him before in his life. Not one woman, not one man.

They learned about the blackmail threat that the inspector had found under his door that morning.

They learned that the inspector assumed Johnny's death was some kind of divine punishment for a few fleeting moments of happiness, a punishment from the same gods who had clearly never given a damn about A.E. Pessimal before. 

"And of course I shall submit my resignation, Your Grace," said Pessimal in a small, drained voice.

"What?" Vimes barked, surprised. "Why? And what's with my grace, A.E.? I thought you liked me."

It was the inspector's turn to look surprised. 

"Why, because I have compromised myself and disgraced the uniform," he replied. "And I do hold you in the highest regard, Your Grace, but I no longer have any right to address you in a familiar way." He stared down at his boots, a man who could no longer bear to watch as his world collapsed around him.

Vimes exchanged an agonized glance with Angua. Where to start?

"A.E., please look at me," he began, in the gentlest tone a gruff old copper could muster. "You did nothing wrong here. Nothing, d'you hear me? How you conduct your personal affairs is none of my business. Your standing in the Watch is based upon the work you do, and your work is exemplary. I won’t accept your resignation, Inspector. You’re needed here.”

“You’re also wanted here," Angua put in.

Pessimal blew his nose.

“Thank you, Commander, Captain," he said hoarsely. "I shall strive to repay your confidence in me.”

Vimes stood and motioned to Angua. The two conferred in the hall.

"Taking advantage of a good man whose only crime was being lonely," Angua growled. "If Johnny wasn't dead already, I'd punch him."

"Oh, agreed, Captain. Agreed.” He trailed off. Angua’s werewolf nose picked up a new and wistful strain in Vimes’ olfactory cloud. She could guess what it was: he was remembering his own long years in a lonely haze before he'd found his Sybil.

“But let’s think about this," Vimes continued in the slow, deliberate way he had when he was fitting things together in his head. “Johnny wasn't stupid, no doubt, but also not clever enough to cook up a scheme like this on his own. Someone else enlisted Johnny and who knows how many others like him, and set out to prey on men like our A.E."

"They learn that he's a watchman," Angua chimed in, "and they think, jackpot."

"But something happened," Vimes said. "Maybe Johnny took more than his share. Maybe he tried to blackmail the blackmailer. Maybe his conscience got to him and he tried to bow out. Whoever killed him ..."

“...or had him killed...” Angua supplied.

“...or had him killed, yes, is the one running this nasty little show,” he finished. “I’ll bet my lunch they're running this con on other men right now. And there might be other lads like Johnny who'll get the chop when they're no longer useful."

She told him about the particular perfume on Johnny's five-dollar bill. 

"A seamstress is mixed up with this, eh?” Vimes replied. “Well, don't say anything to the Guild, although gods know they'll find out soon enough.* We want to find her before the Agony Aunts do, or there won't be enough left of her to answer questions."**

* The Guild of Seamstresses regulated the affairs of the city’s many women (and some men) of negotiable affection with ruthless efficiency and a quite generous health plan.

** The Guild’s enforcers, Dotsie and Sadie, were just a couple of sweet old ladies whom any Scout would be proud to assist in crossing the street. If that same Scout later tried to cross a Guild member, he would learn just how far those sweet old ladies could insert a parrot-headed umbrella.

The stiletto heel of the Seamstresses stepped down hard on extortion and deceit, both officers knew. Mind you, it was okay for the ladies to pad a brassiere, or for the small but growing number of male guild members to stuff a sock or two in the old codpiece. That wasn't lying, that was advertising. 

But for a hooker to pretend not to be a hooker, to extract money under false pretenses from a john who didn't realize he was a john, well, it was Not Done, and not just because a broke customer found it difficult to be a repeat customer.* In their corroded but functional hearts, the tough old madams who ran the Guild believed in honesty. They purveyed Reasonably Priced Love to fully informed and quite eager customers. They were not in the business of tricking customers with a cruel parody of the real thing.

As for blackmail and murder, they were so far past Not Done that they could only be viewed through a Make-Things-Bigger device.

* “Arsk your Guild Member about our new DollyCard loyalty programme! Collecte one point per $1 fpent!! Double pointes every Tuesday!!!”

Whoever and wherever she was, the clock was ticking for the person running this con. The Watch was after her, which was bad enough. But soon Dotsie and Sadie would be on her trail, Sadie's parrot-headed umbrella tap-tap-tapping with every step, and that was much, much worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I headcanon Pessimal having a small crush on Vimes. Even as emotionally constipated as Vimes is, he senses it on some level and treats Pessimal with extra care and consideration, as much as his gruff ass can. In fact, that was the original basis for this whole story before it went careening off in a different direction. Your thoughts?


	5. What the Waiter Said

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He was the only kind person I ever met in this awful city," Payam said with a catch in his voice, "and now he's gone."
> 
> **
> 
> On the trail of the murderer, Angua and Pessimal quickly learn that A.E.’s erstwhile boyfriend was not what he seemed.

Back in Vimes' office, the commander, along with Pessimal and Angua, considered their next move.

"You know, I think Johnny knew our waiter at the Curry Gardens last night," Pessimal volunteered. "But when I asked, he claimed not to. Maybe he was just attracted to the lad. I know it isn't much to go on..."

"...but it's all we have right now," said Vimes. "Go find that waiter. You two are on the case."

\---

The waiter came to the alley door of the Curry Gardens. He was a handsome youth, short and slim with wide brown eyes. He took one look at Pessimal, now in Watch uniform, and blanched.

"I wasn't trying to pick up your date, sir," he said quickly, eyeing Pessimal.

"Did you know Johnny?" the inspector asked gently.

"No," he said automatically. "But what is wrong? Did something happen?"

Angua rested a hand on Pessimal's shoulder. "Johnny was murdered last night," she said.

The boy staggered backward, tears springing up in his eyes. 

"It wasn't me! I didn't do it!" he said frantically, waving his hands.

"We know," said Angua, whose werewolf nose had already catalogued the lad's scent, cross-referenced it with the cocktail of odors at the crime scene, and found nothing to flag. "But we do think you knew him. Can you tell us who might have done it?"

He hesitated. "If I tell you, I might be next," he said. His breathing quickened. "I've been seen with you here, I might be next anyway. Oh Offler…"

"If you like, we can arrange protective custody, er..." said Pessimal.

"Payam," the youth supplied. "And I don't think I want to be in custody."

"Well, Payam, is there someone you could visit for awhile?" Angua suggested. "Someone out of town?"

"I have an uncle in Quirm?"

"You must go," Pessimal said with quiet urgency. "Just for a few weeks, while we track down the killer. And we _will_ find them, but only if you tell us what you know."

The youth hesitated.

"We won't judge you, and we won't tell anyone else what you say," said Pessimal. "You know already that I … I like men too."

Payam nodded.

"We can see you safely onto the Quirm Flyer," Angua added. "And the Watch will pay for your ticket."

The youth looked down.

"It was Mrs. Buchanan," he said in a near-whisper. "Well, not her. The big man who is always with her. She tells him what to do and he does it."

"Can you tell us more about her?" Pessimal asked.

Payam glanced around the alley and back at the open kitchen door. "Not here," he said.

"Let's walk to your lodgings," Angua said. "You shouldn't be alone anyway, and we'll escort you from there to the coach stop."

On the way, Payam told them about the handsome middle-aged lady who'd dined at the Curry Gardens, who'd been so friendly and sympathetic to a boy fresh off the boat from Klatch. She told him to think of her as his auntie. She told him she could help.

She would set him up, indirectly, with men. She'd give him a description, and sometimes an iconograph, along with a place and time to bump into the man, seemingly by accident.

"But how did she pick us … the men?" Pessimal asked.

"I don't know. I just had to show up."

After their "chance" meeting, Payam would turn his big brown eyes on the man and start to talk in his lilting Klatchian accent about how their rendezvous was fated, ask if the man believed that each of us is destined to find our one true love, our soulmate.

Sometimes the man scoffed and went on his way, but only sometimes. After all, the inspector hadn't. Payam's men rarely did.*

* Hope, amongst other prominent male responses, springs eternal.

Once Payam and the man connected, he explained, it was a matter of building a careful simulacrum of a relationship. He had to tread a thin line, reeling in the man close enough to continue plying Payam with gifts and cash in response to carefully constructed stories of need, but not so close that the man would start to take undue liberties with the youth. 

As it transpired, only Payam was concerned about the liberties. Mrs. Buchanan didn't care. She only cared about the money.

At first, she asked for a small percentage of the cash gifts they'd give him. But then she wanted a bigger percentage, and a bigger one. If the youth balked at paying, or no longer wanted to see a man who was getting too handsy, then her muscular associate would come and loom over him. Looming usually worked on its own, but once when Payam had been particularly stubborn he'd gotten a punch in the stomach for his troubles.

The big trouble started when Mrs. Buchanan had started demanding a percentage of the non-cash gifts. Meals, clothes, jewelry -- it added up, and the lad had no cash to cover it. Now, Payam revealed, he was deeply in debt to the woman who was no longer the sympathetic auntie he'd met many months ago.

As they arrived at the door to his lodgings, Payam gave them the note that Johnny had passed to him at dinner, the one with a date, a time, and the lady's signature.

"It means I am supposed to go meet her," Payam said.

"But where?" Pessimal asked.

"The Crown & Anchor," he replied, "in Whalebone Lane. It's where I met Johnny too. He was leaving Mrs. Buchanan's table once when I was coming to see her."

"Did you get to know him well?" asked the inspector.

"A little. Not enough. I know he's been working -- worked -- for Mrs. Buchanan longer than me. He tried to help, kind of like a big brother," Payam said with a small, damp smile. "He brought all his dates to the Curry Gardens. He made sure they sat in my section, and he always told them to…"

"... tip you well," Pessimal cut in. "He insisted. I thought he just had his eye on you." He winced.

"He was trying to help you pay your debt to Mrs. Buchanan, wasn't he," Angua said.

"He was the only kind person I ever met in this awful city," Payam said with a catch in his voice, "and now he's gone."

Pessimal gently squeezed the lad's shoulder. 

"We will catch her, Payam," the Inspector said. "I promise."

The youth nodded, wiped his eyes, looked around.

"I'll go pack my things."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd love to follow Payam to Quirm and see if he finds happiness, but there's only so much bandwidth in my head. So let's just say his uncle is delighted to see him and sets him up as an assistant manager at a nice cafe, he meets a kind Quirmian _gentilhomme,_ they settle down in a sunny little flat with a view of the sea, and his time in Ankh-Morpork under Mrs. Buchanan's thumb fades to a distant bad dream. I hope it's true.


	6. A Night at the Pub

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _These boots? Cleavehelm  
>  Chainmail? Shatta  
> When I hit the streets, bitch  
> I do it with a clatta’..._
> 
> **
> 
> Angua and Pessimal hit the pub and learn Johnny's true name. They also learn that dwarfs slay at freestyle verse.

Angua and Pessimal saw Payam safely aboard the Quirm Flyer. That night, with a couple of days to spare before the youth would have met the infamous Mrs. Buchanan there, they decided to have a look round the Crown & Anchor.

Their walk down Whalebone Lane was accompanied by a distant, muffled thumping.

"Is it the Undertaking?" Pessimal asked.*

"I don't think so," Angua replied tentatively.

* The Patrician's new and ever-growing network of underground carriageways and sewers made the city less congested and far less smelly, but the constant thud of underground construction was the subject of considerable angst in the letters column of the _Times,_ where it was alleged to cause constipation, salacious dreams, and male-pattern baldness, among other maladies.

The noise grew louder. Then Pessimal opened the pub door, and they were hit by a nearly physical wall of sound. 

Up on a small stage a band was playing, or perhaps the word was blasting. It included a dwarf singer, a human pianist, and two horn-blowing dwarfs, all in the most glittery chain mail Angua had ever seen. A huge troll drummer loomed behind them, banging on rocks so fast his hands blurred, so hard the floor shook.

The lead dwarf, beard decorated with ribbons, spat out staccato freestyle verse that surprisingly wasn’t about gold. After all, gold just sits there. This song sashayed down the street, kicking up sparks in dwarf-forged high heels, throwing enough attitude to make the Patrician raise _both_ eyebrows.

 _Steel. Boots. Big. Axe  
_G’rakha. Ha’lk _ed. I’m. Stacked  
Grags all whack, gonna call me _ha'ak  
K'rak? _Gonna smack, girl, hack, girl  
Lay _kruk _down with my axe, girl…*_

A packed dance floor writhed with young people, mostly male, of every description: humans, dwarfs, trolls, goblins, and, judging by the occasional cry of "crivens!," possibly a nac mac Feegle. The bar was a scrum of people laughing, drinking, and oh yes, snogging like monkeys.

* Deep breath: No human knows what a _g’rakha_ is or how a dwarf _ha’lks_ it, and no one is brave enough to ask. Grags are masters of dwarf lore; most are sort of lawyers and priests wrapped into one small, cranky, reactionary package. _Ha’ak_ is a killing insult aimed at dwarfs who are openly female or just openly different. _K’rak_ is an extremely emphatic interrogative, basically “What the actual f---.” _Kruk_ is dwarf law, which is generally not laid down by singers, no matter how fierce.

"They certainly are … energetic," Inspector Pessimal said weakly.

"Very," said Angua, whose hips were already requesting permission to sway off on a little adventure of their own.

The glances being aimed at the two uniformed officers were … not exactly hostile, but guarded. People knew Sam Vimes was no bigot, but some of his Sammies didn’t live up to his standards.

They elbowed their way to the bar. A swish of a gown, a gust of perfume, and the barman was there, an impossibly tall and slender Howondanian with sharp ebony features, a strong jaw, hoop earrings, and a bald head.

"Ooh, working that Sammy drag, honeys," he yelled over the din. "What can I get you two?"

"Information," Pessimal replied, sliding the iconograph across the bar. The barman gave it a cursory glance, gasped, and grabbed it for a closer look. Igor had done his best, but the picture’s subject was clearly...

"Dead?" he asked, hoarsely. Angua nodded. His lip wobbled. "Oh, Caerwyn," he whispered. The barman leaned in. “Can’t talk here,” he murmured. “I’m on break in twenty minutes. Alley out back.” And he was gone.

They passed the time listening to the band:

_These boots? Cleavehelm  
Chainmail? Shatta  
When I hit the streets, bitch  
I do it with a clatta’..._

When they reconvened in the alley, the barman paused to light a cigarette. He gave the officers a hard look through the veil of smoke. 

"Before I say any damn thing ... the Watch doesn’t usually bother about people like me or Caerwyn. What is he to you?"

Pessimal cleared his throat. "We dated. Briefly. Sort of. I..." He stopped, not trusting his voice.

The barman took a long drag and gave A.E. a piercing stare. "Okay, I’ll bite. My name is Xhanti, it means 'pillar' in Howondanian, laugh if you must, my pronouns are xe/xyr, look perplexed if you must, and I don't trust the Watch any further than I can throw a troll but I feel okay about you two. So let's talk."

The inspector recounted what Payam had said.

"That lines up with what I heard from Caerwyn," xe replied.

"Was that his real name?" Pessimal asked.

Xe nodded. "He said it means 'dearly loved' in Llamadese. Didn't stop his dad from beating six kinds of shit out of him after catching him with another lad. He jumped on a ship here, tried to find honest work, couldn't. He only knew sheep wringing, bless him.* And well, you saw what a dolly dish he was” -- Xhanti fanned xyrself -- “so he found dishonest work soon enough. Oh yes, he did."

* Sheep in rainy Llamedos must be wrung out periodically to avoid unsightly fleece moss.

Xhanti paused and examined the little inspector's face. 

"Honey, you did know he was hustling, didn't you..."

"Not until earlier today," A.E. said shakily. "I let myself believe that he loved me." 

Xe reached out and wiped Pessimal’s damp cheek with a single perfect red fingernail. Angua had to turn away.

"If it helps, honey, I know he tried his best not to be cruel. Caerwyn hated the work. He also didn't like what happened after his part was done, when Mrs. Buchanan would blackmail the men he'd been seeing. He was trying to save up some money, get ahead of the game a little, enough to tell that woman where to step off. And he tried to help some of her other boys, like little Payam. But she took more and more, and he could never get off the treadmill." 

Xe took a breath."I hope you can forgive him. And thank you for caring about him. I'm glad he mattered to someone else too."

"Thank you, Xhanti." Pessimal took a deep breath and looked toward Angua. "We need to find Mrs. Buchanan," he said, steel in his voice.

"You said Payam was supposed to meet her here in two days' time," Xhanti said. "You know when she'll be here, so why couldn't you bring in another pretty boy for her to meet instead? There's your 'in.'"

"I like it," Angua said. The inspector nodded agreement.

"He'll have to be something special, mind you," Xhanti said. "Like Payam. Like Caerwyn."

"Johnny -- I mean, Caerwyn -- he really was quite handsome, wasn't he?" Pessimal said shyly.

"Honey!" Xhanti exclaimed. "First time I saw him, I flooded my basement."

Angua, who'd been taking an innocent drink from her canteen, sprayed a mouthful of water across the alley. Pessimal looked mystified. Xhanti patted his shoulder. "Look it up later, honey."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couldn’t resist flooding Xhanti’s basement. Oops. I picture xyr as the love child of RuPaul and [Ruby Rhod](https://archiveofourown.org/tags/Ruby%20Rhod/works), with some extra [Xhosa](https://www.sahistory.org.za/article/xhosa) realness. I chose to wait until Xhanti told our point-of-view characters about xyr preferred pronouns before I started using them.
> 
> And yeah, I’m that bitch, sis: [This](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TQ04gPb4LlY) is totally the inspiration for “Steel. Boots. Big. Axe.” Shablam for me in the comments.


	7. Sashay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I've seen how brave you are, A.E. We all have. You have the respect of the Watch.... When you're ready to come out, that will not change. I promise.”
> 
> **
> 
> Angua and Pessimal bond over their shared experiences in the closet, A.E. assays a sashay, and His Lordship wants justice.

Angua and Pessimal proceeded back toward Pseudopolis Yard in the cool, foggy night.

"You know," Angua said, "with most people I meet -- human, dwarf, troll, goblin, orc -- I can tell who they find attractive. They give off a little shot of pheromones, and, well…" the werewolf tapped her nose.

"Even trolls?"

"Even trolls. It's like a whiff of hot gravel."

They turned onto Sheer Street.

"So you knew about me," Pessimal said quietly.

"It took some time. You're a very private man, A.E., even to this nose."

"You didn't tell anyone," he said, and she caught the faintest curl of a question.

"No. Once in Borogravia I sniffed out a group of women soldiers who … needed to pass as men for a time, and I kept it to myself. I've smelled a thousand little crushes, even in the Watch houses. I treat it the way you'd treat a neighbor's private business, if you accidentally overheard."

"Thank you, Captain, for your discretion."

"Of course, Inspector. But … Inspector? I spent far too much of my life trying to hide who I am, living in constant fear. It wasn't easy coming out, even to Carrot." Especially to Carrot, she added to herself. "I'm not fully out even now, but still, I actually look forward to waking up every morning. I have real friends who accept me. I have Carrot."

"I hear what you're saying," he replied slowly. "I ... don't know…"

"Today you opened up to Payam, and to Xhanti, so they would trust us. I could smell how difficult that was for you, but you did it. I've seen how brave you are, A.E. We all have. You have the respect of the Watch, even" -- she rolled her eyes -- "idiots like Fittly. When you're ready to come out, that will not change. I promise. End of sermon," she added with a smile.

He chuckled, and walked in a thoughtful silence.

Turning over the events of the evening, Angua found herself marching, no, strutting to an insistent beat in her head. She hummed tunelessly, but it was enough for Pessimal to catch on.

 _"Steel. Boots. Big. Axe,"_ he began.

 _"G’rakha. Ha’lked. I’m. Stacked,"_ Angua returned.

They grinned hugely at each other. The little inspector put hands on nonexistent hips and ventured a strut of his own. On a scale from one to center pole at the Pink Pussycat Club, it was a 0.05, but it was a strut. A passing seamstress wolf-whistled.

The party started.

\---

Back at Pseudopolis Yard, watchmen sat at their desks in the big front room, guzzling tea and puzzling over the punctuation in their reports. Carrot stood at the big duty officer's desk just inside the door, sorting out the week's roster with old Sergeant Colon. Corporal Nobby Nobbs, who was almost certainly human but needed papers to prove it, hovered at his pal Colon's shoulder, ready to finagle a cushier assignment. 

"So, if Ping is taking a granny's funeral that day," Carrot said with the air of one doing differential calculus in his head, "we can move Brick to Treacle Mine Road and pair him with the new lad from Genua…"

A faint rhythmic thump insinuated itself into their awareness. Small concentric circles appeared in Colon's tea.

"It ain't the _gahanka_ ,* is it?" Nobby quavered.

* A summons to war consisting of many troll clubs hitting the ground at the same time. When you hear it, you're about to get hit with several tons of bad news.

The big front doors opened with a crash. Watchmen leapt to their feet, then stood slack-jawed and wide-eyed as Captain Angua sashayed through the doorway. 

No one on the Disc had ever heard of beatboxing, but she was, in fact, beatboxing. Her werewolf growl was perfect for the bass line.

She spun on her heel and extended her arm toward the door, for all the world like a circus ringmaster about to introduce the Flying Pastrami Brothers. 

The astonished audience watched as three ladies of negotiable affection, two drunken sailors, a small crew of beggars, and one small scruffy gray dog formed a ragged double line flanking the door, clapping (except for the dog) and stomping to the beat.

 _"These boots? Cleavehelm / Chainmail? Shatta,"_ came a reedy voice from just outside, perfectly synched with Angua's sputtering. The voice arrived at the doorway. _"When I hit the streets, bitch / I do it with a clatta’..."_

Watch Inspector A.E. Pessimal, red-faced and smiling sheepishly, Made His Entrance. He slayed.

 _"Steel! Boots! Big! Axe!"_ Pessimal and Angua bellowed at each other. They looked around the stunned room and fell out laughing. 

\---

The Patrician eyed the grubby piece of paper on his desk. It had arrived early that morning from one of his small army of street informants. He regarded it warily, as if it might explode or turn into a small chicken.

“Not for the first time in my life, Commander, I must ask for the sake of clarity: Mr. A.E. Pessimal? Small man? Very clean shoes?”

"That’s him, sir."

Up went the eyebrow.

_”Dancing?”_

"Strutting, I would say." Vimes quietly enjoyed His Lordship's discomfiture. "Perhaps sashaying, although he doesn't have the hips for it."

The eyebrow made a break for the ceiling.

_"Why?"_

"He's had a bad week, sir. I'm sure he felt he was owed." Vimes filled in the details. Lord Vetinari frowned. A.E. Pessimal had been an efficient and loyal clerk in the Palace for many years before joining the Watch. And while His Lordship was the ultimate overdog in the city, he shared His Grace's soft spot for underdogs. The mysterious Mrs. Buchanan had just earned another powerful enemy.

"Do keep me apprised, Commander."

"Sir."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angua barely rated a mention in the early drafts of this story. Then she stood up, growled, and took over the joint. Who better to empathize with an anxious, mostly-closeted gay man than an anxious, mostly-closeted werewolf? With that bond established, she and A.E. went off and turned this chapter into a buddy-cop romp, and next thing you know they’ve got the Patrician saying WTF. Characters are little [tulpas](https://tulpa.fandom.com/wiki/Tulpa) who take on lives of their own.


	8. Going Undercover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Oh, I know what it's like, my dear. New to the city, no friends or lovers yet, and doesn't the money just drain away…. I'd like to help. Please, think of me as your auntie, all my boys do. You may call me Mrs. Buchanan."
> 
> **
> 
> Jango’s undercover clothes don’t cover much, Angua disputes his misgivings about Pessimal, the suspected murderess appears to take the bait, Pessimal realizes how she marked him for the scam, and Nobby calms traffic.

At roll call, Captain Carrot called on Inspector Pessimal and Captain Angua to explain the planned operation. They needed an undercover officer to infiltrate Mrs. Buchanan's organization. And as Xhanti had pointed out, not just any old flatfoot would work as bait. 

"So," Pessimal said, "we need a very … handsome young watchman. Who wishes to volunteer?"

The officers reacted with a chorus of laughter and groans, particularly from those richer in years and/or chins.

Corporal Nobbs shot to his feet, tottering on his heels, and saluted smartly. "I've never been found wanting when the public good is at stake," he said virtuously, adjusting his current ensemble a bit for modesty's sake. Captain Carrot covered his eyes.

"You've never been found at all," Colon murmured from the benches. 

Angua and Pessimal both froze as they tried to fit "Nobby" and "handsome young watchman" into the same sentence. Or paragraph. Or quite long book. They took refuge in selective obliviousness.

"Anyone? Anyone to volunteer? Don't be shy."

This crowd knew what "volunteer" meant, and they quickly volunteered someone else. A certain tall, slim, boyish new Sammy was shoved protesting to the front.

"Lance Constable Jango Macarona, no relation, Captain," he said with a reluctant salute. "I volunteer."

"Apparently," said Angua wryly. She darted a Look at the assembled officers, who did a quick group impression of a choirboy convention.

"Fine show of initiative, Lance Constable," said Carrot with his usual ironclad innocence. He dismissed the gathering.

"Why him?" Nobby complained as he and Colon headed for their break. "Big brown eyes like a cow, all them white teeth, and prob'ly gets his shoulders stuck in narrow doorways." He absently swatted at a passing watchman who tried to pat his bottom. "Some bait he'll be. He ain't even from around here! He'll get lost on the way."

"Now then, Nobby, you have to be the bigger man about this," said Colon magisterially. "On that subject, Nobby, may I ask about the dress?"

"I'm working the Traffic Division this week, remember? It's my new traffic-calming outfit."

Colon glanced at him, narrowly avoiding retinal damage. He'd now viewed more of his friend than he'd ever wished to view. 

"Ah yes, Nobby, it slipped my mind," he said. "But I feel I must ask: is fishnet really _you?"_

\---

"Is this really _me?"_

Down in the locker room later that day, Jango Macarona's ears flared red as he examined himself in the cracked and stained mirror. He'd donned his costume for their little operation: a ruffled open shirt that would guarantee him a chest cold on chilly nights, along with trousers so tight he'd probably need Igor’s professional assistance in removing them. 

At least it wasn't Nobby's dress, he mentally conceded.

"I look a right bourke in these clothes," he complained in an accent that was still Genuan around the edges.

"It's, er, 'burke,' Lance Constable," Pessimal said, mouth dry. "And no, you look ... quite nice. Don't worry, you'll blend right in at the pub."

Unimpressed, the lad turned in the mirror and tugged at the seat of his trousers. He appeared to be smuggling two melon halves. 

"And these things," he said through gritted teeth, "don't half ride up."

Pessimal and Angua were now in plainclothes as well, although a great deal plainer than Macarona's. 

Angua inspected the young lance constable with a critical eye. Well, she thought, he'll leave the pub with either critical intel about Mrs. Buchanan or a date. Or both.

"Shall we, gentlemen?" she said.

"I must deliver a forensic accounting report I've been preparing for the Palace first," Pessimal replied. "I'm afraid it will quite ruin the day of some key people at the Guild of Accountants and Usurers tomorrow," he added proudly. "I'll meet you at the Crown & Anchor."

As they proceeded to the pub, Macarona seemed preoccupied.

"Out with it, Lance Constable," said Captain Angua.

"So, the inspector, Captain. Accounting? He's a very small and weak man, yes?"

"You patrolled with Constable Brick, right?" Angua replied, voice clipped. "Sergeant Detritus' adopted son? Troll, very tall, made of rock? Back before the Sergeant took him in, Brick once knocked down Commander Vimes in a street brawl. Would have clubbed him to death, but Pessimal attacked the lad, distracted him long enough to save the commander's life." 

She glared at the boy. "A small man isn't necessarily a weak man, Lance Constable. Or a coward."

Macarona remained unconvinced. "Hmph," he said, "we'll spend all our time protecting him instead of doing the job. He should stay at the Yard and do his accounting."

Angua rolled her eyes. Deliver me from know-it-all rookies, she thought. Aloud she said, "Don't let appearances fool you, Lance Constable. Ask Brick."

\---

Jango perched on a barstool, adjusting his frilly shirt for maximum chest exposure and hoping to the gods he saw no one he knew.* 

Pessimal's small frame was folded into a cubby beneath the bar, since they didn't yet know how Mrs. Buchanan had chosen him as a victim, and perhaps would recognize him.

* Almost everyone he knew lived thousands of miles away in Genua, but no distance is too great when the universe sees a chance to embarrass the living hell out of you.

Angua, who had Changed before they got there, sat at Jango's feet like a good wolf … er, dog, hoping to get a good whiff of Mrs. Buchanan.

The late-afternoon time stated on Payam's note came and went. A sturdy but handsome woman in a gaudy dress walked in. She looked around, frowned, shrugged, and eased onto the empty barstool next to Jango. 

Xhanti, seemingly preoccupied with cleaning glasses behind the bar, shot a meaningful glance at the lance constable.

Angua sniffed, and got a snoutful of a familiar, cloying perfume: An Evening in Quirm.

Jango nodded politely. "Good evening, madame."

"Good evening, young man. What a pretty dog, and doesn't she look intelligent! And what a delightful accent you have! Genua?"

"Why yes, madame," he replied, pouring it on as thick as he dared.

"Welcome to the Big Wahooni," she said warmly. "Do let me buy you a drink."

They chatted. He talked about missing his home, and his hopes for big money in the Disc's biggest city, "and maybe a… a man too," he added shyly.

"Oh, I know what it's like, my dear. New to the city, no friends or lovers yet, and doesn't the money just drain away," she said sympathetically. "I'd like to help. Please, think of me as your auntie, all my boys do. You may call me Mrs. Buchanan."

She mentioned an acquaintance, the name wasn't important, who would love to take a handsome lad like Jango to dinner, but who was very shy and would never ask. She gave him a piece of paper with an address and a time for the next evening, and told him to strike up a conversation with the man.

"He'll be mad for you, I just know it," she said, giving Jango an appreciative up-and-down look. "And I'm sure he'd be very generous to you. You just have to build him up a bit, tell him the two of you were fated to meet, that you're soulmates. And then, a bit later on, just mention any little cash flow problems you might be having … back rent, perhaps, or there's always your dear mum's doctor bills!" she tittered, and Jango joined in, hesitantly.

Under the bar, Pessimal frowned as the inner voice, quiescent the past day or two, had its say. _Told you._

"I'm sure he'll want to help a nice handsome lad like you, and there's the first few dollars of your fortune in the big city, hmm? No harm in that, right?"

Jango let his eyes light up with what he hoped was the right mix of naivete and avarice.

"And I'll just take a little commission after your dates," she continued, "a little finder's fee if you will, nothing much, you'll hardly notice. And there's no need to mention me to the gentleman, of course. Let it be just between the two of you."

"But how can I just start talking to a strange man?" he asked innocently, batting his eyes. Angua rolled hers.

"Silly boy, it's easy!" Mrs. Buchanan laughed. "Just pretend to be, I don't know, a salesman. Or even better, an Omnian missionary! Oh, it'll be too amusing."

She finished her drink.

"Darling, it was lovely to meet you and your beautiful dog, but I must run. After you've had your chat with your new friend tomorrow, do come back and meet me here, all right? I'll be dying to hear all about it. Ciao!"

After she left, Angua went in the back room and Changed. The three officers compared notes.

"Good heavens, I did meet her," said Pessimal, "I recognized the voice. I was at the Dysk, on opening night for _Hello Polly, or The Funny Girls,_ a wonderful musical about … well, perhaps I'll tell you another time.* We were in line at the bar, at intermission. We chatted. I mentioned being in the Watch and I said I always attend opening night for every musical. She found it amusing, a Watchman who loves musical theatre..." 

* The show, a retelling of certain events in the recent Borogravian Wars, got rave reviews for showstopping numbers like "Make Yourself a Man" and "People Who Kneed People."

He looked ill. "I told her where I worked, and when I would next attend a show at the Dysk, and … and …"

"... and she could guess the rest from context," Angua finished for him, gently. Macarona shifted uncomfortably.

"Is there no one whom one can trust," the little inspector murmured.

"Not many," Angua conceded. "But when you find someone you _can_ trust, that's all that matters."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you write Discworld fanfic, you’re required to get Nobby into a dress. Hey, I don’t make the rules. Besides, who doesn’t have a soft spot for Knobi in _Jingo_? 
> 
> Also, Discworld musical theatre! So spill: which other musicals should be playing at the Dysk, Lord Wynkin's Men, the Bear Pit, and the other Broad Way houses?


	9. The Truth Is Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Get back, you freaks," Mrs. Buchanan said calmly. "I do my homework, ladies. I already knew cutie pants here was a watchman. Now I know he's not a very bright one."
> 
> **
> 
> Jango attempts to share the Good News of Om at a really tough house, the villainess gets in some low blows, everyone gets a good look at the real Pessimal, and the Agony Aunts happen.

The next evening, Lance Constable Jango Macarona took a deep breath and tugged at the seat of his hated undercover trousers. He looked a great deal sexier than your average Omnian missionary,* but that only enhanced his chances for success. The idea, as they'd rehearsed, was to successfully connect with this first man assigned to him by Mrs. Buchanan, cement his position with her, and allow him to collect still more evidence of her crimes.

* Except for those found in the pages of _XXX Omnian Missionary Boys,_ a pulp magazine featuring iconographs of young men wearing broad black Omnian hats, turtle-icon necklaces, and not much else.

He glanced around the little side street. Angua, four-legged again, lazed a few doors down, doing her best to pass as a random street dog. Constable Brick and Inspector Pessimal stood just out of sight around the corner. Captain Sally von Humpeding flitted overhead in her bat form.*

* Or rather, bats; dozens of them in her case. The collective noun for a group of bats is a colony, a camp, or as the vampire would call it when struggling to reassimilate all her wayward bats into one Sally, a bloody nuisance.

They'd come to the address given Jango by Mrs. Buchanan, at the time of day she'd specified. Macarona knocked at the door. A portly middle-aged man in a neat suit answered the door. He greeted the lad cordially but Angua was immediately on alert; she could smell the man's terror from yards away. 

"Have you heard the Good News of Om?" she heard the lad say.

"G-g-goodness, no, I … I haven't. Do come in and, er, tell me all about it."

He stood aside. Macarona squared his shoulders and stepped into the house. Angua growled. That wasn't part of the plan. He was supposed to stay in the doorway in plain sight, the young fool!

The door closed. An instant later she heard the lad cry out.

Angua barked furiously. Constable Brick, bless him, remembered that this was the signal for trouble. He immediately lumbered toward the door, with Pessimal running around to the back. Sally's bats provided aerial recon.

Brick walked through the front door,* followed by Angua and several bats. Inside was a jumble of overturned furniture. Mrs. Buchanan's goon held an arm around the portly man’s neck and a knife at the man's stomach. Mrs. Buchanan held a loaded pistol bow to Macarona’s head. She was a sturdy woman and had already put her big high-heeled boots to use; the young man sat awkwardly on the floor, pale-faced and clutching his knee. Dislocated patella, if Angua was any judge.

* He didn't open it first. When a troll walks through a door he walks _through_ a door, amirite? Tip your waitress.

The werewolf approached Mrs. Buchanan, growling, hackles raised. Brick tried to move behind the goon. Sally's bats circled the ceiling, looking for an opening.

"Get back, you freaks," Mrs. Buchanan said calmly. "I do my homework, ladies. I already knew cutie pants here was a watchman. Now I know he's not a very bright one."

Macarona's head hung down, but jerked back up when Mrs. Buchanan jabbed the pistol bow against his temple.

Behind her, Pessimal edged forward as silently as he could.

"I'm not afraid of the doggie or the rock or the bloodsucker," Mrs. Buchanan announced without turning around, "and I'm certainly not afraid of the scrawny little poofter trying to sneak up on me right now." He stopped.

Mrs. Buchanan turned and sneered at Pessimal. "Sad and lonely, lonely and sad. Gods, it was so easy to take you for everything. Even that fool Johnny could do it."

"His name was Caerwyn," Pessimal said with a calmness he didn't feel.

"So what?" Without moving the bow from Macarona's temple, she pivoted on one leg and kicked out with the other, hard, driving the little man's armor into his stomach. He doubled over in wheezing pain. Her boot connected again, with his ribs, right in the narrow space between his breastplate and backplate. 

"Silly little man with your greased-down hair and your cheap little boots all shined up," she said as he dropped to his knees, groaning. "Playing at being a watchman. Does Vimes know he's got a mincing little molly working for him? I should have ratted you out on day one, I mean, the idea of my tax money paying some fruit's wages…"

Angua watched as Pessimal sagged to the floor, crying, crawling on his all fours seemingly at random. She groaned. He'd been doing so well, but now he was going to pieces.

 _Wait,_ her nose cut in. His smell doesn't match his behavior. Stay sharp, be ready to move….

"...Well, not _my_ tax money, I'm not that stupid, but really," Mrs. Buchanan continued. "You should have gone home and crawled under the bed and just died there, Pessimal. It's not like anyone would come looking for you…"

The poofter, the sad loner, the silly little man with his slick hair and his twinkly boots, the mincing little molly who would die alone because no one cared … was crawling closer to Mrs. Buchanan, staying between the woman and her potential escape route out the back door. 

"... and now I'm going to walk out the back door along with the charming young lance constable. My employee and the fat fruit over there are going to do the same. None of you will follow us unless you want two more dead bodies. Got that?"

Too busy being clever, Mrs. Buchanan didn't notice that the little man had crawled … just close enough. 

Now. 

Suddenly, Watch Inspector A.E. Pessimal was on his feet, standing arrow-straight, appearing much taller than he should, and his skinny arm was swinging, and his fist was connecting with Mrs. Buchanan's forearm, knocking the bow from her hand just as she fired, too late, too late for her, and the evil little arrow sang past the portly man's face and buried itself in Mrs. Buchanan's employee, who crumpled to the floor, and Angua landed on the goon in a snarling fury, and Pessimal leapt on Mrs. Buchanan but quickly realized he wasn't heavy enough to knock her down, and Macarona piled on as well, and together they pinned her to the floor, and -- everything stopped.

Angua was busy Changing, so Pessimal was the first to speak.

"Captain von Humpeding!" They heard an answering squeak from overhead. "Fly to the Yard and get backup and medical help. Constable Brick!"

"Yessir!"

"Cover the goon. If he moves, club him."

"I don't t'ink he moving, Inspector," Brick rumbled, nudging the body with a huge foot.

Mrs. Buchanan flexed, testing the two watchmen holding her down. The movement jarred Macarona's knee, and he groaned.

"Madam," said Pessimal coldly, "if you move again I will personally hand you over to your guild. Be told." She froze.

Angua was back on two legs and adjusting the light dress she always carried in a pouch on her collar. She grabbed the handcuffs off Brick's belt.

“You have the right to remain silent,” she began, yanking Mrs. Buchanan's arms together with Pessimal's assistance and working the cuffs on. “You have the right not to injure yourself falling down the steps on the way to the cells. You have the right not to jump out of high windows…"*

* The rights that must be recited to all detainees in Ankh-Morpork had been carefully written to remind even the most obtuse, malign, or Nobbs-like officer that one did not Put the Boot In.

They heard a tap-tap-tapping on the floorboards. They turned. It was Sadie's parrot-headed umbrella. Dotsie appeared so silently at Angua's shoulder that the werewolf yelped in surprise. 

The old woman reached out a restraining hand. "Guild business first, kind lady," she said.

"Very _urgent_ business, dearie," Sadie added, "which only Mrs. Buchanan can assist us with."

Mrs. Buchanan whined something that sounded like "nooo."

"Fine," Angua sighed. "Ten minutes?"

"More than enough time, kind lady."

"She will still be able to assist the Watch with our inquiries afterward," she said sternly. "Yes?"

"Yes indeed, dearie. Eventually."

Angua motioned for everyone else to follow her outside. The portly man weaved his way out with them, assisted by Brick. 

A.E. helped Jango stand and guided the lad's arm around his narrow shoulders. Staggering under the weight, A.E. helped him hobble to the door. The little man didn't seem to notice the awed looks Jango kept giving him.

"She hit you," the boy said hoarsely, "and that was bad, yes? And then she said all those terrible things to you, and that was … much worse. I thought you were giving up, but then … wham!"

"I've heard those words all my life," A.E. said distantly, still wheezing a bit. "Often in my own head. I'm used to them." Jango winced. 

"If she thought she was winning, I knew she wouldn't take me seriously until it was too late. I'm used to that, too," added the little man, whose forensic accounting skills were becoming known and feared, belatedly, throughout the guilds of Accountants and Usurers,* Lawyers, and other scoundrels.

* Usury has nothing to do with bears, whose amortization schedules are laughably unreliable.

"All that mattered, Lance Constable," the inspector concluded firmly, "was to protect you."

Jango had the grace to look sheepish. 

A.E. steered him to a wall where the lad could lean and take some weight off his throbbing knee. Even so, Jango kept his arm around A.E.'s shoulders, and A.E. made no move to shrug him off.

The officers all stood there awkwardly, avoiding each other's eyes as they listened to the muffled sounds of Dotsie and Sadie going about their work. The privilege of the guilds was a sore subject with the Watch. Privilege, as Commander Vimes reminded them sourly, just meant "private law." The thing was, the unpleasant thing, the thing that rankled … it mostly worked, at least in Vetinari's Ankh-Morpork. The Assassins didn't kill indiscriminately, and tidied up after themselves. The Thieves said please and thank you. The Musicians didn't play folk songs at you without your prior written consent. The Usurers didn't sell your granny to the glue factory for tuppence.*

Why? Because Guild members knew that if they broke the rules, their guild's enforcers would … enforce.

* No, they sold her for quite large sums of money.

From the other side of the closed door, Mrs. Buchanan screamed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In _Making Money,_ Moist von Lipwig confuses usury with ursery, which amuses both Lord Vetinari and me.
> 
> And who's the scariest duo in the Discworld novels? Mr. Pin and Mr. Tulip? Duke Felmet and his terrifying Lady? Nah. For my money, it's Dotsie and Sadie. I could hear Sadie’s parrot-headed umbrella tap-tapping in the background all through these last few chapters. The Agony Aunts would scare the hell out of Sweeney Todd.


	10. Grains of Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Inspector Pessimal likely saved the young man's life," said the Patrician. 
> 
> "Yes sir. And now the lad has a serious case of hero worship, I'd say."
> 
> "Do you think…?" Vetinari asked.
> 
> **
> 
> Angua smells the truth about A.E. and Jango, the Patrician reveals a sliver of truth, everyone at the Bucket drinks to the truth, and Death recognizes the truth when he hears it.

Inspector Pessimal and Captain Angua emerged from the Lady Sybil Free Hospital into the gathering dark of the street. Young Macarona had been hobbling spiritedly about his hospital room and said he was fine, but was held for observation.*

* With time off for good behavior he would be paroled in the morning, though it seemed to pain the fearsome Head Nurse to admit it.

An interesting moment: a doctor had asked, "Lance Constable, are you by chance related to the, er, famous Professor Bengo Macarona?"

And the boy had glanced at Inspector Pessimal, taken a deep breath, and said, "Yes. Yes in fact, we're first cousins."

The lance constable had insisted the doctors treat the inspector's bruised stomach and ribs before they examined his knee. Pessimal in turn had hovered over the injured lad like a small but determined mother hen. Neither seemed inclined to let the other out of his sight, until the Head Nurse had glared the inspector and the other non-patients out of the hospital.

Now A E. and Angua proceeded toward Pseudopolis Yard in companionable silence. 

"What a fine young man," said Pessimal, after a time.

"A rookie mistake here and there, but yes, he's got a bright future in the Watch," Angua replied. "He took lessons in bravery from you today."

The inspector ducked his head and blushed happily.

"He thinks very highly of you," she added. "I can tell."

Pessimal looked up, fear and hope warring in his eyes.

“Do you think…?” he asked.

The werewolf could have said _the boy smells so interested I'm surprised he didn't jump your bones in front of the gods and everybody,_ but she settled for, “Very possibly. Why not take a chance?”

\---

Lord Vetinari nodded as Commander Vimes recounted the capture of Mrs. Buchanan, the last item on their agenda. 

"Inspector Pessimal likely saved the young man's life," said the Patrician. 

"Yes sir. And now the lad has a serious case of hero worship, I'd say."

"Do you think…?" Vetinari asked.

"Very possibly, sir. I'm due to meet them this evening at the Bucket, in fact."*

* The Bucket was the Watch's preferred boozer. Vimes was in recovery, basically for being Vimes, and had to settle for fruit juice and a mean game of darts.

"Please extend my congratulations to Inspector Pessimal." When Vimes looked a bit blank, he added, "For apprehending Caerwyn Ap Dyncreulon's murderer, of course."

"Sir." 

Vetinari's faithful clerk, Drumknott, politely ushered Vimes to the door. His Lordship turned his attention to the paperwork on his desk.

The commander was just stepping out when he heard, "...and for his great courage in finding himself. I admire and envy him."

Vimes spun around. The door closed in his face with a soft _click._

\---

Angua and Carrot arrived at the Bucket a few minutes late. As usual at this time of the evening, it was wall-to-wall Watch officers. She noted Lance Constable Macarona (proudly related, thank you) sitting quite close to Inspector Pessimal at a crowded, convivial table. 

She noted the inspector's hair. It wasn't plastered to his skull with hair wax. It was natural, a bit messy with a hint of curl, and frankly adorable. 

She leaned to one side for a quick glance under the table. His boots were still shiny. She found that reassuring.

The little man caught Angua's eye and gave her a bright smile.

“Do you think…?” Carrot whispered to her.

Angua nodded. Carrot beamed.

When they were seated at the table and the chatter subsided, Pessimal raised his pint.

"To Caerwyn," he said. "It means…"

"Dearly loved," Xhanti supplied, softly. Xe raised xyr cocktail.

Angua and Carrot raised their mugs. Sally raised something sticky with an umbrella in it. Vimes raised his fruit juice. Brick raised his fizzing Electrick Floorbanger.*

* A rare treat he'd been allowed just this once by his adoptive parents, as long as he promised not to eat the decorative sparkler.

Jango raised his pint and then gave a little start of surprise. He looked down at the tabletop. A.E. had gently taken the lad's free hand in his own. Their eyes met.* Jango's handsome face lit up like a Hogswatch tree.

* Up on the pub roof, a bluebird cleared its throat for the big number but succumbed to a violent coughing fit.

Vimes smiled, a noteworthy event. Sally and Xhanti shared a fist bump. Brick grinned, his diamond teeth sparkling. Carrot leaned against Angua, misty-eyed.

Something about the moment impressed itself upon their surroundings. With much nudging and nodding and shuffling over, Watch officers gathered round the table, slapping the new couple on the backs and raising their own pints. 

Angua gripped Carrot's hand.

"To Caerwyn," she said. "May we all be dearly loved."

They drank.*

* Drumknott, sitting nearby and wearing a rather silly false mustache, dabbed at his eyes with a handkerchief and jotted something in his notebook.

\---

Death, who just happened to be passing the Bucket, turned away from the scene in the window and proceeded along his own beat, pausing only to scoop a stunned bluebird from the cobbles. 

On his way to the Alchemists’ Guild (again), Death took a short detour through Whalebone Lane, past the Crown & Anchor. He liked the band and hoped they were playing. He was in luck. He stopped outside, felt the troll drummer shaking the pavement beneath his bony feet, stroked the bird's feathers, and listened:

_Tak's words are what I’m prayin’  
Kruk is what I’m layin’  
Grags could shit gold  
I still don't care what they're sayin'_

_There's times we get battered  
Hearts shatter, shards scatter  
But we get up and stand up  
Help each other up the ladder_

_You can call us_ d'harak _  
Give us flak  
Attack  
You still lack  
The grain of truth:_

The drumming stopped. In the echoing silence, the dwarf singer's voice rang out.

_The heart is all that matters._

Death recognized the grain of truth when he heard it. He nodded, and continued on his way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my first draft, it was Jango who reached out and took A.E.'s hand. Then I switched it so A.E. takes the initiative, and it just felt right. The switch rippled backwards through the story. My first-draft A.E. was a soppy little person who waited for things to happen to him. I hope he now comes across as the big-hearted little badass he was meant to be.
> 
> Anyway, I love a happy ending and I think Death does too. I learned that I also love writing queer dwarf freestyle verse. Rap your own in the comments.


End file.
